"Those were hard things for me to come by, and I offer them to you for what they may be worth." - Toby Wolff

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Separate Wonders

You hold your hope out
like the eigth wonder that it is.
I see the light of it dim
cupped in the cage of your hands
panhandling for care and feeding.

You are a single parent
and the long night has been sleepless...
a series of same.
In the dawn of unreciprocated work
a thought wavers in uneasy release
dips and bobs like a mosquito that cannot find a landing
for such sharp teeth.

You reach for it
but your arms are full of pyramids, temples, walls, and coliseums
structurally burdened.
Wet dog....you shake,
uncontrolled patterns in arcs like arterial blood
and yet
you are still wet.

You are the sole provider
the runner with a torch.
It is yours to carry.
It is yours to drop.
There is a meter running, and I have no coin.

There is a ninth wonder.
I carry it beneath the wing of my arm.
No one sees the light
a child unnamed, waiting for a personality.
My hands hang open
from the surrender of my arms
wild things
requiring no care or feeding...
only time
for a course to expire.

(There is a hope, as brave and bold as any soldier, and yet it too, cannot self sustain forever. How long can it remain unrewarded? You consider releasing it, but it has its own life span and will not be hurried. There is a hope, as timid and unsure as any awkward teen, tucked away until it fully knows itself. You attempt to rush it, only to stumble like a new colt on weak legs.  We acknowledge our lack of knowledge, and we wonder.)


  1. This sounds like my life Annie, I hope all is well with you. Good poem...


  2. You are a warrior poet, my friend.

  3. Yes, yes, yes, Annie. We hope. Two monumental,.small words filled with promise, even a tiny grain of it can keep us keeping on.

    When I hear the word "hope" I always think of this poem below. I love you, Ms. Poet-with a heart as wide as the sky...xoxo

    Hope is the Thing With Feathers
    By Emily Dickinson

    Hope is the thing with feathers—
    That perches in the soul—
    And sings the tune without the words—
    And never stops—at all—

    And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
    And sore must be the storm—
    That could abash the little Bird
    That kept so many warm—

    I've heard it in the chillest land—
    And on the strangest Sea—
    Yet, never, in Extremity,
    It asked a crumb—of Me.

  4. i wish i understood this more. i get exhaustion, and i get the belief (hope) that with patience and knowledge, hope will flower. these days i am ever so lost and yet more and more i'm settling into myself--thank god.

    and thank god for poets and words

  5. I so enjoyed the story telling in this, and the desperation of hanging as a responsibility to someone else.

  6. hope is like a small bird learning to take flight. We might stumble and flutter but then we spread our wings and fly...

    My hope is still in the first stage.

  7. your voice is prophetic. the hope, and stumbling toward it. the torch for each of us. and the wonder we are left with. wowsa.

  8. This is beautiful. I often have wondered of the place from where you write. Such depth.

    I also love the photo. The angle of the man's hand almost looks painted, almost divine...

  9. Sometimes hope is all there is,
    and it is enough,
    keep the flame burning. :)

  10. AnonymousMay 09, 2012


  11. loved it, know it, lived it. Wondeful, you will come out of it even more brilliant

  12. i'm still trying to figure out what this post is about.. it's sticky but i don't know why. care to share a bit of your mind?


Thank you for listening.